A LETTER TO A FRIEND |
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A LETTER TO A FRIEND
The past is like a story
I have listened to in dreams
That vanished in the glory
Of the Morning`s early gleams;
And--at my shadow glancing--
I feel a loss of strength,
As the Day of Life advancing
Leaves it shorn of half its length. But it`s all in vain to worry
At the rapid race of Time--
And he flies in such a flurry
When I trip him with a rhyme,
I`ll bother him no longer
Than to thank you for the thought
That "my fame is growing stronger
As you really think it ought." And though I fall below it,
I might know as much of mirth
To live and die a poet
Of unacknowledged worth;
For Fame is but a vagrant--
Though a loyal one and brave,
And his laurels ne`er so fragrant
As when scattered o`er the grave.
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